I roll my eyes. “I honestly don’t know, Mel. Don’t be like me, okay?”
Her face drops and she gives me a what-the-fuck expression. Did she think I had some witty response set aside for her? That I would rip her head off and stoop to her level? Bitch is dreaming. Plus, she’s right. I don’t know how long it’ll be before Derek’s fucking another pair of legs again. That’s the truth, hence the reason we are separated.
But I’ve noticed there are people in my life that aren’t really taking that label seriously. The separating, I mean. It’s like at any minute they think I’m going to jump back into it with him. Like my mother said, frowning, “Being separated doesn’t mean you get to run off and do what you want. You’ll be living with him. You’re still in this with him, you know.”
I know, Mother, but thanks for your advice, and for kicking me out of your home and forcing me back in this situation.
My morning is busy and filled with clients. I get all kinds of them coming in: a flirty man who is twenty years my senior that gives me the creeps when he calls me sugah but tips very well; a chick around my age who’s getting ready for a date tonight and filled with hope (I’m jealous because I miss that feeling); a young girl who is cutting off her hair and sporting her shortest do for the first time in her life (I wish I had balls like that); and then a very old lady who wants foils done and complains about how long it’s taking (it takes the same amount of time every visit, Roberta).
It’s rare I get time to really stand and do nothing. The salon’s rates are extremely competitive, and that means a lot of traffic comes through the door. We’re popular, and all would be great if my co-workers weren’t so bitchy. I swear it’s like high school all over again some days. It’s the reason why I distance myself from them all, except Alicia. I have enough drama as it is in my life. I don’t need to know what Becky said about Chelsea behind her back. Every week there’s a new girl thrown under the bus, and it’s only a matter of time before it’s me scrambling to save my job.
It’s no wonder I like my lunch breaks. They’re my time alone, away from the demands of people. It’s nice to just sit for twenty minutes and focus on nothing but my own thoughts.
I buy a tray of sushi and eat it at a table in the food court of the shopping center close to the salon. My phone’s vibrating beside my tray but I make no effort to answer. If I do, it’ll be another round of verbal abuse from Derek, and I’ll snap and abuse him back. And to be frankly honest, I’m too tired to fight anymore. I don’t even remember what our argument was about yesterday. Something to do with the bills and how to divide our money. He has a problem with spending, and I always end up pulling the money out of our savings to make ends meet. God, three weeks in, I don’t even share the same bed, don’t even see him half the time, and we’re still back to our toxic ways again.
I look down at his name flashing across the screen and press the end button so I don’t have to hear it ring anymore. It’s only when I’m coating my third sushi roll with soy sauce that I hear a chime. It’s the specific chime from my Facebook app letting me know I have a message. I frown, wondering who could be messaging me on a Monday afternoon. Everyone I know is busy at work.
Could be Mom, I suppose. And now I’d rather that phone call with Derek.
I swipe the screen and access my Facebook app. I press the red notification bubble at the top of the screen and the message flashes before my eyes.
A.W.: Are you divorced yet?
What the fuck? I frown at the message. I certainly don’t recognize the initials, and there is no profile picture to help me out. I click the Facebook page, but it’s completely private and was created yesterday.
I respond quickly, assuming this might be a misunderstanding on their end.
Ivy Montcalm: I think you’ve got the wrong person.
Not even a minute passes before I’m hit with another message.
A.W.: I hear every 1 in 2 marriages go down in flames, so I’m liking my chances here.
My mouth drops, and my brows pinch together. This is obviously someone trying to get under my skin. Wouldn’t be the first time some bitch has faked a profile to have a dig at me. Probably one of Derek’s many bar floozies. Will they forever be pestering me?
Ivy Montcalm: Fuck off.
They obviously won’t. I’m sure the gloves will be thrown off and the bitch will have a series of curses ready to throw my way. Which is fine by me. I’m good at confrontation, especially when it comes to a woman that has swallowed my husband’s dick.
But what I see the next time it chimes makes my jaw drop.
A.W.: I see you’re still a foul-mouthed stunner.
I freeze.
Foul mouthed stunner.
Foul.
Mouthed.
Stunner.
I know who said those three words to me. I’ve been thinking about him incessantly. My heart picks up speed as I focus on the initials now. A.W. Aidan? That was his name. I have no idea what the W might stand for.
Holy shit.
My phone chimes again.
A.W.: Starting to dawn on you yet?
My fingers are shaking as I respond back.
Ivy Montcalm: Aidan?
A.W.: Correct.
Ivy Montcalm: How did you find me?
A.W.: There’s this amazing thing called a search engine.
Ivy Montcalm: Smart ass. What made you reach out to me now?
A.W.: I’m clearly not thinking straight. I think it’s the heat.
My fingers are shaking
